


Metal and Flesh

by sasha_b



Category: X-Men: First Class (2011) - Fandom
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-08-17
Updated: 2011-08-17
Packaged: 2017-10-22 17:22:08
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,483
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/240584
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sasha_b/pseuds/sasha_b
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Erik, his lifelong friend metal, and his new friend Charles.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Metal and Flesh

Every day, when he runs, Erik sees the satellite dish out of the corner of his eye. Every day, he takes the route behind the mansion that carries him closest to the giant thing; hulking, omnipresent, the metal whispering in his brain, tightly, tiny bright words that float and dance and coerce and taunt. He touches the stairs that lead up to it, feels the vibration of its presence in his brain.

Metal has been his friend since he was a boy, since he was separated from his family, since his mother was taken from him, since _Shaw_. His only friend, really, if he thinks about it, which isn’t very often. That fence, the first thing that had spoken to him…he does dream about that, sometimes. Its voice had been so very loud and insistent, strong and violent and pulsing.

 _Charles is my friend_ his mind has starting saying recently, but Erik’s too intent on his goal, too focused, too worried (he won’t admit to that) to believe that little murmur. Yet.

He jogs past the dish; he has to stop, breathing, panting hard. The sun is bright even though the wind is cool on his exposed skin – his grey top and sweat pants are wet with sweat, his muscles stretched to their limits (Charles always admonishes him for going too far), and his hair damp and itchy. But the dish…it’s so loud, so insistent.

Then he hears laughter and the unmistakable sound of Charles’ voice, encouraging, and he looks up.

The boy, Sean, is there with Hank and yes, there’s the top of Charles’ head and his futzy sweater and Erik is bounding up the stairs as the metal vibrates and laughs and greets him. He shakes his head and shoves the desire to _lift your hands, Erik_ as he stands next to Charles.

Sean is frightened, frightened and worried but as Erik watches Charles reassures him, consoles him, the dish speaks (try) and Erik thinks _what is taking so long_ and “here, let me help.”

Charles goggles at him, “Erik!” coming from his lips as it always does, and Erik smirks as they watch Sean fly. He’d known the boy could do it; he’d just needed some help. And God love Charles and his kindness (Erik has begun to get used to hearing the sweet tone of the other man’s voice) but sometimes more force is needed.

“What?” he responds to the look from Charles. He smiles and shrugs, wiping sweat from his forehead. “You know you were thinking the same.”

The boy flies and Charles smiles back at Erik and Erik grips the railing of the dish’s platform, letting the wind dry his sweat, listening to the sound of Charles and the feel of his friends steel and iron and metal.

After a moment, they are one and the same.

*

The next time he ascends the stairs in the dark, rainy night, pushing his sleeves up, hair soaked, eyes glowing in the gloom of the evening, bats wheeling overhead as they hunt for supper. It’s drizzling, yes, but he doesn’t care, he needs to do this, to touch the dish and to feel the massive amount of power that could be at the beck and call of his mind. He licks oddly dry lips, eyes closing, muscles tense and coiled, a live wire ready to extract (the submarine) whatever he can from this giant thing that speaks to him even as he’s sleeping, Charles’ waking him only once when he was shouting loud enough for the other man to hear. Erik doesn’t think about that too much, but every once in a while now will catch Charles watching him, waiting, a question sometimes floating through Erik’s consciousness (Alright, Erik?).

He always smiles and brushes off the worry.

He raises his hands, the fingers crooked and flexed, and open his eyes.

It hums and groans and he aches and can’t breathe and his brain goes to that _place_ and there’s the gate and his parents are screaming for him Mama, please don’t, please, please don’t leave me and he reaches out and the gate bends and then the gun butt knocks him to the muddy ground, and his parents are gone.

And the dish moans and calls his name and it shudders under his hands and finally he has to breathe and the noise and the desire are gone in a giant clap of thunder.

Erik shivers and shakes, gasping for air, sweat mixing with the rain that wets his lank hair, and he collapses to the deck, muscles and mind pushed too far. He laces his fingers together to stop the trembling and holds them tightly, feeling the power that was there, feeling the metal that speaks to him, feeling the dish taunting and threatening and he drops his head to his knees and the bats wheel overhead, silent but for the weird clicking sound they always make.

*

Charles’ face looms over him and he jumps back, slamming into the headboard, hand reaching for his head as a hiss escapes even as Charles’ face crumples into shock and “I’m sorry! Erik, I’m sorry.” His hand brushes Erik’s on the back of Erik’s head, feeling for the lump Erik knows is coming. “Are you alright? I’m very sorry, my friend.”

“What are you doing here, Charles?” Erik’s voice is heavy with sleep; he’d been swimming through the thick of something, wet and hazy and not too comfortable, the sound of chains and various … laughter echoing in his waking brain. He clicks the light on next to his bed with the snap of fingers, and Charles’ blue eyes reflect the warm yellow. He sits back on his haunches and still manages to hover over Erik, a worried hen, clucking and biting at his lip.  


“I’m sorry,” he says for the umpteenth time. “You woke me. I wanted to check on you.”

Erik sighs and sits up further, rubbing at his skull, wincing when his hand comes into contact with the new bump. Charles shakes his head and scuttles off the bed, apologies flowing like water as he attempts to go for ice. Erik stops him – the watch and ring Charles wears enough metal to arrest the other man in his tracks.

“I don’t need it. Charles, how did I wake you?”

Jerkily Charles turns, fighting the grip on his watch, and Erik hastily drops his hand, gesturing for Charles to return to the bed.

“I can hear you, I’ve told you.”

Charles Xavier is not hesitant about anything at all, but his voice is so soft, Erik has to wonder. He pinches the bridge of his nose – the things in the room that are metal beginning to float as he squeezes his lips closed. “Charles, please.”

“You were speaking out loud. And Erik, there’s no place I _can’t_ hear you.” Charles sits on the edge of the bed. He shakes his head, tapping the side of his temple softly. “There’s no place I would want to be where I couldn’t hear you.”

The words are plainly spoken, but nonetheless they take Erik aback. The floating objects fall where they spin – he’s sorry for the lovely Tiffany (replica? He doubts it) lamp in the corner, but this can’t be right. This can’t be the way things go for him – he has a goal, a set time and a plan and besides, the metal in the world is the thing that can hear him, can find him, can speak to him. Not this man. Not this ridiculously kind, smart, funny, attractive (yes) frumpy professor that sits and stares at him, eyes open, seeing only Erik for who he is inside, not for the power he holds in his DNA.

No one can see him for him. Especially when he doesn’t even know who that is. Even the metal can’t know that, no matter how hard it tries.

He watches Charles intently, knees raised, hands folded loosely on top of the sheets. He can hear the dish pulsing through the night air, can feel Charles’ ring and watch, can sense the iron that makes up the now bent stand the Tiffany lamp rests on. He can feel the gate – can taste it in his blood, can see its bent top, the wire stretching and reaching toward him, calling him, _Erik please!_

So why can he suddenly – possibly – also feel this man’s heart? Why, when he can only feel the pull of his power?

He reaches out and fists Charles’ shirt in his right hand and drags the other man to him, their mouths meeting with a clack (a small “ow” coming from Charles forcing a smile on Erik’s lips), noses bumping, the first kiss nothing romantic or gorgeous or simpering or anything like Erik had read about.

It speaks to him just as strongly as the gate did. Even stronger than the dish – which is howling now, trying to distract him with its giant plates of iron and steel and Erik kisses Charles, less frantically now, and the feel of Charles’ skin and the other man’s shirt in his hand are enough to drown out the omnipotent _metal_ and he feels the bump on his head throb, once.

“Erik,” Charles murmurs against his mouth, warm air raising the hair at the back of Erik’s neck.

Erik pulls back just a tiny fraction of an inch. He speaks against Charles’ lips. “Charles,” he answers, and the other man shudders at the sound.

Erik smiles and wonders only briefly at the silence that can speak louder than any object that had purported to be his friend just a day before; hours before. He kisses Charles again and his hand releases the shirt he’d been holding, smoothing the fabric down as he slants his head, fingers moving to slide into Charles’ thick hair.

He can hear a slight moaning, can feel sadness in the things he’s used to focusing on –

Charles bites at Erik’s upper lip and then smiles and nothing matters save this and the fact that with one touch this man can silence the vibration that has been in the back of Erik’s mind for 18 years.

*

The next day when he attempts to get Charles to shoot him in the head with the gun (its voice is very strong; insistent) Charles turns to the giant open field and points and says “let’s try something a little more challenging.”

Oh. The dish. Of course.

Erik licks his lips, and lets the voice (it’s been mumbling) roar through his head like a wave tearing open a tiny town, a storm in any port, wind and rain and howling commands that he cannot ignore. The anger, the situation, has always worked before (no matter that Charles says it’s almost gotten him killed) and he lets the thing take over even as he reaches out his hands and strains and searches for that thing that connects him to the metal that calls him.

It won’t move. It taunts him, telling him he’s not good enough, not strong enough –

“…do you mind if I…?”

He shakes his head imperceptibly and suddenly (oh dear God) –

“What did you just do to me?” His throat aches as he speaks to Charles, memories of the other man’s touch and whispered words mixed with the _safety_ he feels, the love and support and he’d forgotten about that day. He’d forgotten about that Hanukah, and despite the rage and the anger of the dish and the laughter and taunting and pain he feels _calm_ and focused and he is the point between and he raises his hand and faces the thing and he cries silently and twists his fingers and the metal is his friend and yes, so is Charles and

It moves.

He is one huge grin and Charles is beside him, laughing with him, touching his shoulder, warm leg pressed to Erik’s, pride in his voice, heat in his thoughts, happiness – sorrow too, for Charles feels what Erik feels, all too obvious, now – and the dish is silenced.

Moira calls for them, and Charles turns to answer her, Erik slowly following, his mind sluggish and open and he can hear Charles, but the dish (how?) is silent. No sound, no laughing, no teasing or pulling or words of hope or (I’m your friend, Erik) insistent lowing, the bleating of a sheep, squealing, grinding.

He lets Charles run to the mansion; he’ll follow shortly. Crossing his arms over his chest, he looks upward, breathing slowly, chest rising and falling comfortably, skin warm and blood flowing in his body, his brain silent and content.

Maybe, just maybe.

*

That night at 2:13am he slips on a robe and shoes and heads outside. He doesn’t need a flashlight; the pulsing of the dish (and the lights the scientists have up as they work on the thing, wondering frantically how in the hell it moved on its own) enough to direct him.

The bats are still there as he climbs the stairs, expensive monogrammed robe flapping around his bare ankles, hands gripping the iron railings as he climbs. When he reaches the top he stops briefly, but there are no workers about currently, and he leans over the hand rest at the edge of the small deck where Sean had taken his flight from.

He closes his eyes and yes, the metal speaks to him. Every bit of metal in a five mile radius says _Erik Lehnsherr_ so loudly he’s surprised his teeth haven’t rattled out of his head.  
The difference now is – he can choose to answer. Or not. It is his power to control, to side with, to answer to. He is the master of it, not the other way around.

He opens his eyes wide, taking in the sight of the dish and the surrounding bits of long time friends (metal, always) that dot the world, and smiles as he raises his hands, the fingers straight and perfect, and he finds that point between, and he is Erik Lehnsherr, not just the mutant boy. Not just the one who metal calls.

He sets the dish right, standing straight as the thing moves with him on it.

When he slips back into his room, feet dew damp, Charles is there, waiting, slight smile on his face, brandy ready, Chess board set up. Erik twists his lips (he hasn’t forgotten their angry conversation earlier) but settles into his chair, legs crossing, one eyebrow cocked imperially.

Later he clicks the light off with a wave of fingers, the Tiffany lamp in the corner (fixed now) silently humming to him because he allows it to, complacent, soft, subdued, content.

He sleeps, dreamless and wrapped in the thing that is new and yet old, a friend that isn’t metal or imagined – and yet Charles speaks to him just as easily as the others did.

He doesn’t mind.


End file.
